Unimaginable: Volume 2 Companion
by All The Umbrellas In London
Summary: A series of short stories, expanding on the plots, characters and storylines of each chapter of Unimaginable: Volume 2. Current story: 'Codename: MIDAS' parts one and two. A new hero named Tracey Ho goes on the hunt for Codename: MIDAS.
1. Recruiting Drive

**A/N: **_This story accompanies chapters of the story 'Unimaginable: Volume 2'. Though it is not necessary that you read 'Unimaginable: Volume 2' to understand this, it would certainly help. If you like, read both, plus 'Unimaginable: Volume 1'. Seriously, I'd love you forever. Thanks for reading, and please enjoy._

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RECRUITING DRIVE  
_The companion piece to 'Three Months Past'_**

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**

BERLIN, GERMANY**

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**

1988

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Jake Nicholson moved slowly, carefully. The kid was slippery, and dangerous. The train yard at the edge of the Soviet sector of the divided city of Berlin was freezing cold, and far too dark. The lights of the western side shone brightly in the distance, and Jake knew why the Soviet Union was collapsing around the Kremlin's ears.

He gave them another two or three years, at best.

Jake's breath misted in the air before him, and he tucked his hands in the long overcoat he wore to stave off the cold.

How had the boy lived here for as long as he had without freezing to death? Jake had seen his living space; a rat's nest at the edge of the train yard, featuring a ratty old blanket.

Jake knew he would have died after one night in these conditions.

There.

Movement in the shadows, farther along the moonlit path Jake was walking, between two massive passenger cars. Jake needed no further indication, he ran, gun out.

The kid saw him, and ran, too, straight for one of the train cars. Jake lifted his gun and fired, but the shot didn't seem to strike anything. The kid only ran faster for it, jumping towards the solid metal wall of the train.

He disappeared. Right through the wall.

Jake skidded to a stop in the gravel, eyes wide. "Holy hell." Greenland's information was good, it seemed. The kid did have an ability. Maybe that's how he survived, Jake thought.

He kept moving, despite his surprise, and finally reached the train car. He leapt up, into the niche that housed the nearest door into the car.

He cocked his fist back, and pounded the door.

The thick wood splintered like balsa, collapsing inwards. Jake kicked the remnants down, and pulled the gun up, finger curling around the trigger. His heart was pounding in his ears. The kid could be anywhere.

Movement.

Jake fired towards it.

The kid spun about, his face briefly illuminated by the muzzle flash. The shot was perfectly aimed, and should have blown a hole in his chest. Not imminently fatal, but definitely incapacitating. However, the skin and clothes of the boy merely rippled beneath the bullet, and it struck the thin padding of the train seat behind him.

The kid didn't waste a second, and nor did Jake.

The boy simply phased through the nearest wall, out into the night on the other side of the train car. Jake moved like greased lightening to the nearest window, through which he could see the kid making a run for freedom through the open air.

Jake punched out the window, and slipped through, landing at the same time as the shattered glass.

He followed the rapidly retreating shape of the boy, trying to get a clean shot, but the kid was leaping from side to side in his desperate attempt at escape.

Looked like he had some practice escaping from pursuit.

He was almost out the train yard's gate, almost to freedom. Then, a brilliant flash lit the train yard. A jet of fire burned through the night air towards the boy. It struck, and he screamed as the flames set his clothes alight, and scorched his skin.

He dropped to the ground, and began to roll.

Jake kept moving, knowing that he only had a small window here.

From the shadows, stepped a slender, beautiful red-headed woman. Abby Cone was her name, and the fire was her doing.

She waved her hand over the blaze that was the writhing, screaming, boy and they seemed to be sucked up towards her palm. The flames entirely left the child, and encircled her outstretch hand. She spread her palms upward, and the flames gathered on her skin, finally disappearing entirely.

"Good job," Jake said as he came near, letting his gun drop to his side.

Abby turned and nodded solemnly. The boy was badly burnt, whimpering on the ground. Abby knelt beside him, her expression sympathetic. "The pain'll be over soon, I promise."

The sound of a single person clapping came from the shadows.

Both pursuers turned, but they both already knew who it was. Clad in a top-end, ultra-expensive faux-fur coat stood the slight, blonde form of Louise Greenland. She stopped clapping, and her gloved hand grasped the outstretched palm of a little boy, no more than eight years old, with a shock of short, spiky dirty blonde hair.

Jake couldn't help holding his breath. Greenland had brought her son?

Greenland came closer to the two of them, and she let go of the boy's hand. He stood, silently watching the proceedings. She dropped to the gravelled ground, and extended her hands over the badly burnt boy.

A thin, straw-coloured glow emanated from her hands.

The boy stopped his pathetic squirming, as the healing energy began to reverse the damage done by his burns. Within minutes, they were all gone, and his once-scorched and blackened skin was the same pale colour it had been.

He sat up, spun about, and, pushing himself to his feet, bolted off in a blind panic.

Greenland turned back to her son, and nodded.

He threw out an arm, and, Jake saw with a kind of horrified fascination, let loose a bright blue bolt of lightning.

The burst of electrical energy struck the boy's retreating form, burning across his body, picking him up and dumping him on the ground, unconscious.

Greenland turned to the boy, and extended her hand. He ran forward, and grabbed it. She nodded politely to Jake and Abby, a sick kind of proud smirk barely hidden on her face. "Congratulations. You just captured a teenaged run-away by the name of Brendan Wunderlich. Bring him in."

With that, she and the boy walked away, leaving Jake and Abby gaping after them.


	2. One Fine Day In Paris

_**ONE FINE DAY IN PARIS  
**__The companion piece to 'The Fox'

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_

**PARIS****, FRANCE

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**

**1969

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**"_Bonjour_," the waiter said, his smile forcing the edges of his bushy moustache upwards, as he stood poised, ready to take the orders of the two pretty young women that had chosen one of the café's best outside tables. 

"_Bonjour_," one of the girls answered, the young blonde one perched on the edge of her wicker seat, obviously excited just to speak a single word in French.

Hearing the American accent, the waiter decided to go on in English. "What can I get you today, _mademoiselle_?"

"Coffee latte, please. No sugar."

"_Oui_," he said, and turned to the young lady's companion. She was an African girl, but he'd met enough Nigerians and Tunisians and Moroccans to know she wasn't from Northern Africa. He'd have said West Africa, but he had no real idea. "And you, _mademoiselle_?"

She answered in flawless French. Toast and orange juice.

He laughed, overjoyed at hearing his language coming from the mouth of a foreigner so naturally. Who said French wasn't a widespread language anymore? "Just a minute, _ma cherie_."

He disappeared into the bowels of the smoky, picturesque Parisian café.

Louise Greenland smiled after him. She'd been in Paris less than a week; she barely spoke a word of French. But she'd found the young woman sitting across from her in her dorm, that morning, as much a foreigner as Louise.

Strangers in a strange land, and all that.

They'd spent the day together, discussing the world; the Soviet Union, Berlin, the election of Nixon the year before, the U.S. embargo on Cuba, nuclear testing, and, of course, the war in Indo China.

They'd drifted over the city, the centre, in Louise's mind, of the world's culture, and of the student movement.

They'd become fast friends.

Louise Greenland, sole child and scion of a millionaire American from Connecticut, sent to Paris to learn about the world.

Priscilla Adei-Cardwell, heir to a multimillion dollar Ghanaian coffee export business, sent to Paris to learn about running a business to conquer the world.

Two more different people, other than the largess of their families, would have been harder to find in Paris, but they had found each other. Now, here they were, for a snack at the perfect café in the perfect part of the perfect city. No matter what their families' intentions, they were in Paris to live their lives.

And so they continued talking, chatting amicably as though they had known each other their whole lives, not five hours.

It had been a fine summer day, she mused, drinking her freshly arrived latte.

That was when someone tapped Greenland on the shoulder. She turned to look, and found herself face to face with a dark-haired, smiling woman of about forty.

"Excuse me," the woman began. "I detected an American accent."

She herself had a broad Mid-Western accent. Greenland nodded, and introduced herself. The woman explained she was alone in Paris, and was hoping for some American company, just to give herself a taste of home.

Louise and Priscilla readily accepted, and soon the woman had ordered coffee, and the three had started talking.

Inevitably, the topic shifted to politics.

They discussed the things tearing the world apart; be it the strife in Vietnam, or the assassinations in the United States, or the collapse of the Central American and post-colonial African economies.

That's when Louise said something she'd never actually meant to say. "I guess we can only hope that there's someway that we could save the world."

The woman turned to her, and Louise saw a hint of something in her eyes. Something she didn't want to know the name of. "Do you really mean that?"

Greenland wasn't sure if she was or she wasn't. "Yes." What? She hadn't meant to say that.

Priscilla looked at her, concerned.

"Because what if I told you there was?" the woman said, her voice promising mystery, adventure. Power. "You two, and me, and others?"

Now, even Priscilla was paying the woman rapt attention. "How?" she asked.

"There are people with special powers."

Greenland wanted to scoff, to laugh, to call the woman crazy, congratulate her on the joke, and move on. But she couldn't. Something in her mind stopped her, something she couldn't quite put a finger on. She remained silent, let the woman talk.

"People like me, and like the two of you," the woman said, and Greenland was inspired, somehow, even though she had said little. "It's no coincidence you two met. I made sure of it."

"How?" Louise asked.

The woman looked at her. "First things first," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Cathy Chambers."


	3. Disease

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DISEASE  
**__The companion piece to 'Village Man'_

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SHORE**** OF ****LAKE VOLTA, ****GHANA

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**

Things never were what they seemed. From a distance, the village on the shores of Lake Volta looked picturesque. From a distance, the sole occupant seemed harmless. It was being close that changed things. There were dead bodies lying throughout the village, and the man known only as The Ghanaian was almost positive this man was behind it.

At the suggestion of Priscilla Cardwell, the Ghanaian had agreed to take the village man for a walk, to try and convince him to tell Reilly Carroll and Grace Scott what had happened there. The Ghanaian thought that Cardwell already knew it; she was trying to provide them with a cautionary tale, a reason not to put such blind faith in one's abilities. The Ghanaian could agree with that.

They had reached the shores of the lake, its water clear and cerulean blue, when the village man finally spoke. "Why did you come?"

He spoke in Dagaare, a language The Ghanaian was fluent in. "We came to find you, and to learn from you."

The village man gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "What could you learn from me?"

"We could learn how to prevent this from happening again," The Ghanaian gestured along the shoreline, towards the empty village. "All these deaths."

"How do you know it was me?" the man asked. He didn't seem afraid, or even defensive; just resigned. "How do you know the sickness came from me?"

"I didn't," The Ghanaian admitted, with a shrug. "But your manner confirms it." The Ghanaian removed an object from his pocket. "May I have your finger for a second?"

"What?" The village man grunted. "Oh." He lifted his hand, and stretched out a finger. The Ghanaian pressed the device against the digit. There was a brief pain as the device's needle pierced flesh, but it was fleeting. The device whirred, a second later spitting out a result.

The village man was a Carrier of the Gene.

"And now there is no doubt," The Ghanaian said gravely, stowing the device. "Like me, you have an ability. A God-given gift."

"A gift?" the man spat. "This has killed everyone I ever knew or cared about." He stared hopelessly at his hands. "The sickness... it came from my hands. I felt it, and I couldn't stop it. It is not God who did this; it was the devil."

"Sometimes, in the service of God, people die." The Ghanaian said, absent-mindedly fingering the crucifix necklace at his throat. "Sometimes, we must pay a penance for our gifts."

The village man made a noise, a strangled, grief-stricken grunt. "God is mysterious. But I have killed; he cares little for me."

"I have killed, too. Far more deliberately than you have."

The village man turned to stare at him, as though unable to believe that the softly-spoken man was capable of actual murder; he was gentle, though large, and radiated calm.

"God blessed me with many times the strength of a normal man." The Ghanaian explained. "But I did not heed his call to service; I was a thug, a thirteen year old mean, living on the streets of Accra, thieving, intimidating. Then one day, the wrong person saw my gift in practice..."

**

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ACCRA, GHANA**

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1992**

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"Here you are, little man. Your big test," the gang leader said through a wolfish smile, his gold teeth glinting in the dim light of the bank; half a dozen people had been forced against the wall, two gang members standing over them, Uzis in hand. A fourth member stood at the bank's door, while a fifth had a gun pointed at the two, face-down tellers.

The security guard lay unconscious on the ground beside the door, his hands cuffed behind his back, his weapon in the gang leader's belt.

"Open the door," the gang leader said, jerking his head in the direction of the massive vault door. "Go on, then." His smile faltered.

The boy who would one day be known only as The Ghanaian nodded, and gritted his teeth. He was a tall, gangly specimen, thin, but strong, his teeth in good condition. He placed his hand on the round, giant, metal door. His fingertips found the edge of the vault. He dug in, and pulled.

With a hideous, wrenching grind, the door came loose, rolling open, the hinges bending. The gang, the hostages, and The future-Ghanaian watched in horror as it feel with a resounding crash to the floor.

The gang leader roared with laughter, and clapped the boy on the back. "Congratulations! Come!" he shouted to one of the men overlooking the hostages. He clamped a hand over the boy's shoulder, and guided him through the vault door, Uzi hanging carelessly at his side. "Come and savour your victory!"

Whooping with laughter, he led the boy and his crony into the vault. It was pitifully empty; only a few canvas sacks lay in the corner. No more than fifty thousand. The leader's shoulders sagged, and he sighed. "Come on, then," he said to his compatriot. "Pick up it up."

"Yes, boss man," the toothless thug grunted.

He moved for the canvas bags. A loud crack resounded through the old vault, followed by screams of shock and terror. The boy and the leader spun about, the leader lifting his Uzi.

In the bank proper, one of the hostages had decided to play hero; he'd thrust a knife into the knee of his guard, who'd reacted by shooting the man in the head. He lay on the ground, the worn carpet coated in crimson, a hole in the side of his skull. The other hostages had shied away. The boy could only stare at the broken body, his eyes as wide as saucers.

"What's happening here?" the leader shouted.

No response, over the screams of the hostages, and the cries of pain coming from the stabbed guard. The leader lifted his Uzi-filled fist, and tugged the trigger, releasing four rounds into the ceiling.

"What's happening here?" he repeated, louder.

All eyes turned to him.

Then, in the distance, sirens. The police were coming! The boy started to panic, his heart pounding in his ears. They wouldn't arrest him would they? He was only an innocent bystander. He'd only gotten involved for some food, a place to sleep.

The first guard came trundling out of the vault, laden with the bags, overflowing with money.

"Come on!" the leader shouted, grabbing the boy's shoulder. The three able-bodied gang members ran, towards the double doors. The injured man tried to follow; the leader merely shot him in the chest.

They ran, then, through the streets of Accra, the boy's heart pounding, blood rushing behind his ears. He stumbled, fell, and his 'friends' kept running, the sirens getting closer.

"You!" came a loud shout. "You!"

The boy turned, to see a man running towards him through the alleyway into which the would-be robbers had run.

The man was panting by the time he reached the boy, but he grabbed a hold of the boy's wrist, and held tight. "You're a part of that gang!"

"No..." the boy muttered, shaking his head, backing away, but the man held his wrist tight.

"Yes you are," the man insisted. The boy twisted away, but the man's grip was firm. "The police are coming!"

The sirens were getting closer. The boy was desperate. He lashed out with his fist, connecting with the man's jaw. His neck broke instantly, the chain carrying the man's gold crucifix breaking, falling to the ground. The boy caught it as it fell, his thief's instinct unable to be controlled. The man crumpled to the ground, his grip slack in death, and the boy ran, headlong, into the street, away from the ever encroaching sirens.

Hours later, he stopped running, collapsing behind a dumpster on the other side of the city, a stolen loaf of bread lifted from a vendor who was looking the other way clasped in the boy's hand, the gold crucifix on the broken chain in the other. Hungry, he tore into it, tears running down his face. He thought of the three dead, but most especially the man he had killed.

"Hello?"

The boy froze. A voice, a woman's voice, speaking as though looking for him. It was a posh accent, and she was speaking in English, as opposed to the Akan he had spoken with the gang. Footsteps echoed down the alleyway as the woman drew nearer.

"I know you're there."

She stopped, right in front of him. She looked down at him, smiling. She was beautiful, a heavenly saint sent to rescue him from the pit in which he lay.

She reached for him, saying "Hello. I'm Priscilla..."

**

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SHORE OF LAKE VOLTA, GHANA

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**

The village man closed his mouth. He paused. "Do you still have the crucifix?"

The Ghanaian reached upwards to his throat, and pulled out the long, remade chain, the golden crucifix glinting in the sunlight. "It will be with me until the day I die."

The village man nodded, and looked towards his home, back along the pristine shores of Lake Volta, his eyes misting with tears. He clenched his fists, his chest rising and falling. "I think I'm ready to tell my story."


	4. Another Capture

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ANOTHER CAPTURE  
**__Companion __piece__ to 'Once Started'

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**LOS ANGELES, CA

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**2004

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**

"I've got 'im," Lachlan Dickson growled from the passenger's seat of the speeding Toyota, darting left and right down the Route 101; Los Angeles rose on all sides the car, traffic pressed in, but Jordan Turley ignored both, offering his partner a sly smile.

Lachlan saw him, and smiled back. This was it; they were on the hunt, back where they belonged. Greenland's orders were simple; before they left Los Angeles for their new postings in Europe, they were to track down an errant Carrier, one they'd personally captured in Fresno earlier that month.

"Take the next exit," Lachlan barked, suddenly.

Jordan had just seconds to spin the car into the right lane, accelerated down an off ramp, nearly forcing a semi trailer off the road.

The man honked the horn, but Jordan didn't stop; they had a mission.

"Hang a left here!" Lachlan called, and Jordan spun the wheel anticlockwise. The car entered a backstreet, lined with empty warehouses. In the distance, was a car, a bright yellow Hummer stolen by their target.

The man stood there, in the shadow cast by one of the warehouses, talking to someone. Lachlan reached into his jacket, and drew his pistol. He depressed the button and the window rolled down. He leant out, gun held forward, the wind buffeting him, threatening to drag him from the car.

"Stay on target!" Lachlan roared over the wind.

Their target still hadn't noticed.

"Now!" Lachlan called.

Jordan swerved towards their suddenly panic-stricken target. He jumped aside as Lachlan opened fire. A hail of bullets tore ahead of the car, striking and instantly killing their target's friend, who went down with a puff of blood.

Jordan pulled the Toyota to a stop just metres from the Hummer; they both leapt out, moving towards their target, Lachlan reloading as they went. Jordan took the right, Lachlan the left. Like coiled springs, they jumped out on either side of the vehicle, hoping to trap their target, hiding behind it.

But there was no one there.

They swept their guns in arcs, Lachlan concentrating in finding the escapee. His eyes widened when he did. "Watch out!" he cried. Too late.

A man lunged towards Jordan, seeming to appear from beneath the car. The two wrestled to the ground, Jordan's gun clattering over the asphalt. Lachlan levelled his own weapon, but Jordan and his attacker were rolling around, struggling for dominance. Lachlan tried to get in a shot, but just before he did, the man got in the way.

Finally Jordan seemed to get the upper hand, pinning the man to the ground by his skinny wrists. For a moment, he stopped struggling. He was a tall, gangly kid, so thin he was almost skeletal. Then he got free.

It was as if the bones in his arm shrunk; his stick-thin wrist suddenly became small enough to escape from Jordan's grip. The boy's abdomen also narrowed, allowing him to slip free of the knees pressing either side. Jordan lashed out with one hand, barely managing to brush the fabric of the escapee's jeans.

The denim immediately shrivelled up as the moisture was sucked from it by Jordan's instantaneously dehydrating touch.

The boy was unfazed; he just kept running, leaping the body of his dead friend and dashing towards the doors of the warehouse under whose shadow they'd stood. The escapee reached the doors, which, though chained together, stood slightly ajar. He slipped through the crack as though the gap was a metre wide, not ten centimetres.

Lachlan was the first to the door, but it was impossible to get through.

Jordan joined him seconds later.

They were stuck. Lachlan glanced around, his ability confirming the boy was inside. "What now?" Lachlan asked, trying to peer in through the massive, heavy doors.

Jordan glanced around, looking for an alternate point of entry. "There!" he exclaimed. A steel ladder, leading up to the roof of a neighbouring warehouse. From there, it would be easy to leap across the gap between the structures.

The men moved with a trained efficiency, scrambling up the ladder and seconds later onto the roof. They spun back to the building in which the boy had hidden. The roof of that building was flush with the roof of theirs, and was studded with open skylights. The men exchanged a satisfied smirk. Together, they ran for and jumped over the gap between the buildings, landing simultaneously on the flat roof.

Jordan was the first to his feet, bolting to the nearest skylight, Lachlan a few steps behind. Jordan dropped through, his knees buckling as he struck the mezzanine level bellow. Lachlan landed better, on his feet immediately, gun out and at the ready.

"Where is he?" Jordan asked.

Lachlan gestured into the shadows on the ground floor below.

"Come on," Jordan said, leading Lachlan towards the staircase that lead down to the ground floor of the warehouse. It was a cavernous, single-chambered space, sparsely lit by the sunlight streaming in through the skylights. The ground floor was littered with piles of crates, but the mezzanine level was completely barren.

They took the stairs quietly, one at a time, before they finally reached the ground. They moved towards the crates Lachlan had indicated, at least twelve. Lachlan jerked his head to the left, and Jordan drifted in that direction. Lachlan stayed to the right, hoping to trap their target between them. Once again, the boy got the best of them. He slipped form a small gap between two crates, and barged into Lachlan, knocking him to the ground.

The boy ran for the rear of the warehouse, Jordan in hot pursuit.

He reached a door, a large wooden rectangle set into the warehouse's wall. The boy ducked to the ground, and seemed to stretch himself out like butter; he slipped out, into the brilliant daylight.

"No!" Jordan cried, pounding the door with his open palm. The wood began to rot as the every atom of water was ripped from it, turning it to splinters in seconds.

He followed the boy out into the street behind the warehouse.

The boy saw him, and his eyes widened. He turned to run, but he never got any further than a metre. There was a flash of brilliant blue light, and a bolt of lightning crackled through the air at Jordan's cheek, slamming into the boy's back, sending him sprawling across the ground.

Jordan spun, finding himself eye-to-eye with the handsome, toned form of his boss' son. The man's expression was stony, his demeanour cold. "Thanks," Jordan said, as he tried to get his strained breathing under control.

"Jordan?" Lachlan's voice came from the warehouse. He stepped through the doorway, into the sunlight, and his eyes found the interloper. "Oh."

He glanced down the street, and he saw the unconscious body of the target, the teenager named Luke Bovill, once a citizen of Fresno, California, who had the ability to compress his skeletal structure.

The man, his hair blonde, close-cropped and spiky, inclined his head. "The other Lachlan."

Lachlan nodded, angered at being once again referred to as the 'other Lachlan'. As if he hadn't had enough trouble getting out from under the shadow of the boss' son. "So you get another capture."

Lachlan Collins, the only child of Louise Greenland, shrugged. "I guess so."


	5. Happily Married Part 1

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HAPPILY MARRIED  
_(part one of two)  
__The companion piece to 'Rooftop'

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_

**LAS VEGAS, NV

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**

**1990

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**

"Jake."

The voice on the other end of the phone sent shivers down Jake Nicholson's spine, and his eyes widened in shock. He turned his eyes upwards, and looked across the kitchen of his tiny Vegas home, meeting the gaze of Abby Cone.

Covering the mouthpiece of the receiver, he hissed "It's her."

Abby's jaw dropped, and she shook her head, mouthing one word. "No."

"Jake?" The voice repeated, more demanding than before.

Jake glanced down at his left hand, at the silver wedding band around his ring finger. His gaze flicked across the kitchen, to Abby's hand, and the matching ring, and his heart beat just that match faster.

"Answer her," Abby said, fear in her tone.

Jake removed his hand. "I'm here."

"I have a mission for the two of you." The woman on the other end said, simply, and Jake had a vision of Louise Greenland, safely ensconced in that giant building in L.A.

"We're done." Jake said, simply. "Berlin was our last."

"I have another for you," Greenland responded. "I'm sorry Jake, but I need you. _Both_ of you."

"Louise," he whispered into the receiver. "You promised."

When Greenland responded, it was with genuine concern. "Nobody else can handle this."

Jake looked to Abby, to his wife, for guidance. Abby only shrugged, her eyes wide, but her fingers clenching and unclenching, a brief of smoke escaping every couple of seconds. She turned away, and Jake felt as though his stomach had been removed.

Jake hesitated, but Abby spoke. "We were done after that thing in Berlin," she said. "We _told_ her. She _promised_ us."

"Why would we come back?"

Greenland sighed. "If you complete this assignment, I'll unfreeze your accounts. All of them. If you want, I'll buy you a house. Anywhere in the world."

Jake covered the receiver, and said to Abby "She's going to unfreeze our money, and buy us a house somewhere."

Abby's expression changed in an instant. They had been struggling for money in the months after the mission to Berlin, barely making it on the odd construction jobs Jake had been able to pull, and Abby's hours at a local diner. The millions they had in accounts everywhere from the Cayman Islands to Switzerland would tide them, and their grandchildren, over for life.

Jake's redheaded wife nodded once. "Do it."

Jake took a deep breath. "We're in."

**

* * *

**

GRAND CANYON, AZ

* * *

The desert air was frozen around them as Jake Nicholson and Abby Cone slipped out of their car, in the parking lot behind the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. The impressive natural gorge of sweeping rock plunged into the darkness beneath them, and the Colorado River was a tiny, twisting snake of silver in the moonlight far below.

"The target's supposed to be here?" Abby said in disbelief. The place was abandoned; it was midnight, the tourists were all gone. She shivered. "It's too cold."

"I know," Jake said, and he reached into his jacket, removing a long-barrelled, silver semi-automatic handgun. "Be on the ready though. Greenland said this particular target doesn't get affected by cold. _We_ do."

"This ain't my first rodeo, cowboy." Abby said, shooting him a smile. They were a precious commodity these days; Jake had seen her smile less and less since Berlin. "How did Greenland know the target would be hear, anyway?"

Jake shrugged. "Something to do with satellites, and tracking, or something."

Abby frowned. "You didn't ask?"

"I didn't have to," he said, shrugging. "The target's from Washington, and it was easier to drive to here from Vegas, then to Seattle."

Abby nodded, not even acknowledging the dire attempt at humour. Jake shook his head, and the two, Jake with his gun out and Abby with her hands held forward, ready to hurl a ball of fire at any one who dared attack them.

They wandered to the edge of the cliff, and Jake placed his hand against the railings. A coyote howled in the distance, and Abby moved closer to Jake. "There's someone here," she whispered. Jake glanced in her direction, and saw, over her shoulder, a figure silhouetted against the backdrop of the soft moonlight.

"Amy Lamotte?" Jake said, subtly shifting the gun upwards.

The woman shifted towards them, giving away her identity.

"Don't move!" Jake cried, but the woman turned, flinging out a hand, which glowed with a mysterious blue energy. Suddenly, an intense, biting cold stabbed through his shoulder, driving the breath from his lungs, riming his shirt with frost.

"Jake!" Abby called, running forward and flinging out her hand, sending a ball of flame arcing through the night air.

Their target, the woman with the blue hands, deflected the fireball, sending it spiralling harmlessly into the dusty ground.

"Whoa," Abby said, breathlessly. Two more fireballs erupted into life on both of her palms, a flare of superheated energy bursting into life centimetres from her skin. She raised her voice. "We mean you no harm!"

"Bullshit!" the woman cried, and a burst of cold energy struck Abby, extinguishing both fireballs, forcing her to stumble backwards.

Jake lunged forward, at the same time the woman bolted towards them; his hands outstretched, he leapt for her, only to receive a kick to the midsection for his trouble. He went to his knees, caught off-guard, as Amy Lamotte's foot struck his cheek, sending him sprawling across the gravel.

Lamotte leapt over his body, surging towards Abby, the glow of her power swathing her hands.

Abby flung a hail of fireballs at her, but Lamotte dodged the majority, blocking the rest, getting closer and closer to Abby with every fluid movement.

Her fist struck Abby's chest; the fire-controlling woman was thrown backwards, the cold biting deep into her flesh, sending her spiralling through the air, until she landed in a heap on the ground. Amy didn't waste a second; she turned to run, away from the two of them, but a massive shape fell out of the night sky above her.

A three tonne weight slammed into the gravel, shattering glass and sending up a wave of dust and debris.

Jake and Abby's car had been hurled through the air, landing at Amy's feet. She skidded to a stop, her chest heaving. She spun about, prepared to defend herself, only to see Jake Nicholson standing before her, his arms rippling with muscle, his chest heaving with the exertion of lifting a car and throwing it at least fifty metres.

"Don't move," came a silky voice from behind Amy.

A hand snaked its way around her throat, and Abby Cone leant forward, placing her lips directly beside Amy's ear. "This is over."

Jake crossed the parking lot, with a smile on his lips. "Good job."

Abby smiled back. "You're welcome."

"I'll freeze you from the inside out, you bitch!" Amy hissed, and grabbed Abby's arm. The blue glow returned, and frost formed on Abby's sleeve.

"Stop that, or I'll scorch your vocal chords right out." Abby growled, dangerously. The glow died away as quickly as it had appeared.

"Let her go," Jake said, getting closer. "I'll deal with her."

"With pleasure," Abby said, placing her free hand on the small of Amy's back. She gave a powerful shove to the ice-girl's mid-section, and released her at the same time, sending her stumbling across the ground to Jake.

Jake caught her, before she had the chance to move, and gave her a slap over the back of the head; she collapsed like rag doll onto the ground.

Abby looked to Jake, and smiled. "We did it. We're free."

He laughed, stepping over Amy's unconscious form, and swept Abby into his arms. He held her, tight, and whispered into her ear. "We're free."


	6. Happily Married Part 2

_**

* * *

**_

HAPPILY MARRIED  
_(part two of two)  
__The companion piece to 'The Last Name'_**

* * *

**

LAS VEGAS, NV

* * *

**1990

* * *

**

"No." Abby Cone hissed softly to herself. "No way."

In the tiny bathroom of the tiny house she shared with her husband of less than a year, Abby was crouched in front of the toilet, holding a recently completed home pregnancy test kit. According to the box, if the strip turned blue, one was knocked up.

And the strip in front of Abby was a violent shade of the deepest azure blue.

"No _way_."

Seconds later, she was on the phone, making an appointment to see a doctor.

"No way!" Jake Nicholson cried in jubilation, a few days later when Abby told him. He leapt from the chair into which he had slumped once he'd gotten home from another day at the site, and grabbed Abby, pulling her close.

"Watch it!" she shouted, laughing while at the same time trying to pull away; he was covered in dust and grime after a day labouring. He didn't budge. She smiled. "I know, I'm happy too!"

"Happy?" Jake said, letting her go. "Happy doesn't begin to describe what I'm feeling now."

"I suppose it's a good job we did the Grand Canyon job," Abby said, looking away from her husband for a second. "Greenland's already started unfreezing our accounts. We'll buy a house somewhere up north, in New England or Pennsylvania or something." She turned back to Jake. "And I won't have to go to the free clinic for a sonogram."

Jake laughed, the joy in his heart billowing up through his lips.

"This is the beginning," Jake said, smiling so widely it seemed as though he was going to swallow Abby. "I wonder what ability he's going to have..."

Abby's demeanour went cold. "You thought about that straight away, didn't you?"

Jake brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Whether or not the baby has an ability..." Abby said, trailing off. "Whether or not the baby has an ability, I don't want that to define who it is. Not the way it's defined us."

Jake nodded solemnly. "Then we're agreed."

**

* * *

**

NASHUA, NH

* * *

**1991, SIX MONTHS LATER

* * *

**

"So," the obstetrician said with that warm, familiar smile adopted by doctors when they got to know their patients, "How's Mom doing with the third trimester?"

Abby smiled in return, seated on the thin mattress of the bed in the OB-GYN's office. Jake sat in a chair on the ground beside her, his hand clutching hers, over her massively engorged, very pregnant belly. "I hate it, but you get that," she said, her eyes heavily shadowed. "The morning sickness passed. Finally. Also, I'm getting used to being called 'Mom'."

The doctor, a middle-aged, petite dark-haired woman, laughed. "Good, good." She stood. "Why don't you lie down, and we'll get the ultrasound underway."

Jake moved out of the way, while Abby lay down, and the doctor dragged a portable bench with a TV screen on top and several trays placed in the between the four metal struts holding it up. She took a tube of gel from the topmost shelf as Abby rolled up her shirt, exposing her bulbous stomach. After Greenland had finished unfreezing their accounts, Jake and Abby had bought a large house in New Hampshire, just outside of Nashua. It was a grand, sweeping Victorian, with a large yard, begging for a dog. They'd decided to wait until after the baby to get one of those, but Jake already had his heart set on a Newfoundland.

The obstetrician flicked on the screen, and squirted a few dollops of gel onto Abby's stomach, and pressed a paddle onto her skin.

"Okay, now we're just looking for a heartbeat," she said, moving the paddle around.

Jake stared at the screen, at the grainy black and white shot of what would, in two and a half months, be his firstborn child. They had refused to learn the sex of the baby during previous ultrasounds. Jake watched in wonder, only to be disturbed by the ringing of the phone on the doctor's desk.

"Hold on," the OB-GYN said, setting the paddles aside and reaching for the phone. She had a brief conversation, before hanging up. "Sorry about that," she said, returning. "Just a paperwork mix up I'll have to clear up after we're done here."

"You deserve the death penalty for keeping us in suspense," Abby said, jokingly.

The doctor laughed, and pressed the paddle onto Abby's belly. She moved it around for a few seconds, Jake watching the screen the whole time.

The screen remained a field of hazy black.

"That's not right," Jake said, sharing a concerned glance with his wife. "Why can't we see anything?"

"The baby may have turned..." the obstetrician said, moving the paddle slowly, eyes on the screen. "It's not uncommon..."

Then, Jake made something out. A shape, on the screen. There could be no doubt what it was; a tiny arm.

"There he is," he said, leaning closer.

"Or she." Abby added. Then she frowned. "Why isn't there a heartbeat?" No response. "Doctor?"

The obstetrician was looking at the screen, her expression, just moments ago full of jocularity, had cooled, her face, once smiling, was suddenly set with a frown. She looked slowly from the screen to Jake, then to Abby, sympathy and inexpressible sorrow burning behind her grey eyes.

At that exact moment, the hearts of Jake Nicholson and his beloved wife, Abby Cone, broke in unison.

* * *

One week later, when Jake got home from a joyless, empty day at work, he found the bed Abby had not left for more than ninety-six straight hours abandoned, the house's heat turned off.

"Abby?" he said, his voice echoing through the room, through the house. "Are you home?"

She'd spent the night after the news of the miscarriage in hospital, and had delivered the lifeless body of their child; a boy they named Alexander. They'd buried him two days later, in a private ceremony. She'd cried non-stop for those three days, except under anaesthetic. Then, as though she'd simply run out of tears, she'd stopped crying, only lying in the bed she and Jake had, up until then, shared since their arrival in New Hampshire, staring into darkness.

"Abby?" he said again, wandering through the house.

He found her in the kitchen, standing at the back door, a suitcase on the floor beside her. She was fully dressed, her long red hair tied in a simple, elegant ponytail.

"Abby?" he said, taking a step forward. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head, not speaking. When she did, her words were full of conviction, but devoid of any emotion. "I'm leaving. I'm going to Los Angeles."

Jake knew immediately what she meant. "No, Abby, don't. Stay. We can work through this. Together. You don't have to go back to Greenland."

"I do," she said simply, and took a step towards him. She leant forward, kissing his cheek. "Goodbye, Jake. I love you."

With that, she turned, picked up her suitcase, and was gone.

**

* * *

**

LOS ANGELES, CA 

Jake Nicholson had never wanted to be here again. Above Los Angeles, in the lair of the vary woman he had fought so hard to be free of. He was standing in the cavernous office of Louise Greenland, and he was alone, once again.

There were three others in the room; Louise Greenland, sitting behind her desk reading a _Time_ magazine, the ever-elegant Priscilla Adei-Cardwell sitting across from her, reading a copy of the _New York Times_, and a little blonde boy, lying on the ground nearby, colouring a drawing absently.

Greenland looked up as he entered, Cardwell turned around. The boy just ignored him.

"Welcome back, Jake." Greenland said, simply, a small smile upturning the corners of her mouth.

Jake nodded, unsmiling.

"I'm so deeply sorry for your loss, Jake." Cardwell intoned. "I really, truly am."

Jake nodded again, at Cardwell, acknowledging her sympathy, uninterested in it. It had been two weeks since he had lost the baby, a week since Abby had left. He'd decided to come back to Greenland, to try and find Abby. To rekindle the flame that had died with their child.

"I'd like you to meet your new partner," Greenland said, and Jake felt an odd presence.

A hand appeared out of thin air before Jake, a hand that quickly became an arm, then a man. "Hello," the man said, his tone even, but his demeanour gruff. "I'm Taylor Benn."


	7. Codename: MIDAS Part 1

_**

* * *

**_

CODENAME: MIDAS  
_(part one of two)__

* * *

_

The companion piece to 'Bloodlines'**

* * *

**

MONTE CARLO, MONACO

* * *

The party was an endless, churning mass of human bodies, many half-clothed and sweaty under the flashing strobe lights of the outdoor discotheque in the hills above Monte Carlo; in their drink-induced frenzy of dancing, the revellers barely paid attention to the magnificent view they were afforded. Alcohol was being doled out in untold amounts; all the better to line the pockets of the casino hosting the spontaneous festivities.

Tracey Ho moved through the celebration with a steadfast single-mindedness; she was there for one reason, and one reason only. To have a good time.

She was ready to let her hair down; to enjoy the night, to pass the time until daybreak with this throng of people, most of whom hooted in French, with a healthy mix of Italian and Spanish speakers thrown in for good measure. To her, it didn't matter. A language was a language, and she could speak all of them.

"Hey!" one man cried, a healthy, blonde specimen, who grabbed her hand, and pulled her into the horde of revellers. She danced, free for the time being, and anonymous, just another Asian visitor to the party capital of the Mediterranean.

She was short, slender, her eyes bright and intelligent, her straight, black hair hanging to a spot just above her shoulders. She was clad in a slinky red dress, and she carried a tall martini in on hand, her other curled around of the hip of the rather attractive Spaniard that had pulled her into the mosh. "You speak French?" he shouted in broken English.

Tracey answered him in flawless Spanish. "I could speak in any language you wanted."

The man flashed perfect teeth.

Hours passed under the strobe light, the loud, pounding beat of the dance music resounding through the night air, as Tracey finished her second martini and dumped the empty glass on a table.

Finally, exhausted and parched, she extricated herself from the throng, and dragged herself over to the bar. She signalled to the barman, who nodded back, holding up a finger, mouthing 'One minute'. Tracey leant against the bar, and she felt something buzz in her handbag, clutched in her martini hand. She unzipped it, and buried her hand into tiny red silk thing, removing the vibrating BlackBerry from its clutches.

She glanced at the screen. One new message. She opened it, and her face, flushed with the dancing and drink, changed in an instant.

The party was over. She was back at work.

_T – Sorry to interrupt Monte Carlo partying. Need you in Poland, ASAP. Follow up on target Codename: MIDAS. Real name: 'Burak'. More information on its way – from LA, BW._

Tracey wanted to sighed, but she suppressed the urge. She slipped the BlackBerry back into her handbag, and clasped it, swinging it back into her hands.

"What can you get you?" the barman said, flashing his pearly whites.

"Nothing," Tracey answered, her French as good as her Spanish; it was if she had come out of the womb speaking it. She didn't even have to think about it; the language just came out, without mistakes, without even a pause to think of the right word. It just came to her.

"Hey, miss," the Spaniard she had danced with earlier that night said, sidling up to her. "Come back to the party. Drinks are on me."

Tracey giggled, and pulled the man into a brief, passionate kiss. They separated and she smiled winningly. "Not tonight. I have to be in Poland tomorrow. But thanks for the offer. You made me feel more alive than I have in months." She paused, throwing back her head in joyous laughter. "And I probably won't feel this alive again for a while."

She kissed him again, hungrily.

In the sky over Monte Carlo, fireworks burst into life, brilliant plumes of red, blue and gold. The Spaniard turned, eyes wide with wonder, and he laughed.

Tracey slipped away, stealing into the night.

**

* * *

**

WARSAW, POLAND

* * *

Compared to Monaco, Poland was cold. Really, really cold. Tracey Ho had spent the morning on a flight from Monte Carlo to Warsaw. The information Brendan had promised had come just as Tracey was boarding the plane; it had brought her a sharp rebuke from the air stewardess showing her to her first class seat.

She was to go to the Grodzisk Mazowiecki Branch of the Poland State Archives in Warsaw, and talk to the head archivist, a man named Jan. Jan would take her to the emigration files of the Burak family, who had fled Poland in 1977, to get away from crushing Soviet restrictions.

Brendan knew their names, where they had come from, where they departed Poland from, and how to locate information on them. He just didn't have that information, including the most important piece of information. That is, just where the youngest of the Buraks was. Designated codename: MIDAS by Louise Greenland in 1980, she'd been identified as a Carrier of the Gene, as Tracey herself was. Her ability was unlisted, though evidence existed that Greenland knew what it was.

The taxi cab pulled up out the front of the imposing facade of the Grodzisk Mazowiecki Branch, and she handed the driver a fistful of zlotys, sliding out of the car, into the cool midmorning air.

The cab sped off, rejoining the thick flow of traffic.

She could speak Polish as naturally as she spoke Spanish, or Italian, or Xipaya, an endangered language from the jungles of Brazil spoken by, at last count, only two other people on the face of the planet; two elderly women who lived in a tiny village somewhere in the Amazon. She wasn't able to pass her gift on, the limits of her ability preventing her from teaching a language.

Each language she encountered was like an extension of her own psyche.

She pushed her way through one of three revolving doors that lead into the massive archive building. The door swung open into a cavernous marble-floored lobby, a massive Polish flag hanging on the far wall above a bank of elevators.

"Miss Ho?" A rickety-sounding voice, in the brusque, guttural strains of Polish, drifted through the stale air of the lobby.

Tracey came eye to eye with the source; a slouched old man, walking with a cane. "Yes," Tracey said with a smile, absent-mindedly tugging at the sleeves of her leather jacket. "I've come to meet with a man named Jan in regards to the Burak emigration file."

"I am Jan," the old man said, without offering his hand. "I am chief archivist. Your Brendan Wunderlich contacted me two days ago. I have the Burak file in one of our examination rooms. If you'll follow me, please."

The man moved surprisingly quickly, despite the cane, and led Tracey through a maze-like system of subcorridors to an empty viewing room within five minutes. The only pieces of furnishing in the empty, brightly light fluorescent chamber was a metal table, and a small wooden chair. The table was covered with dusty files and papers.

Jan chuckled, shuffling away. "Have fun."

It took hours of trawling through piles of documents, written in Polish and Russian; dull documents tracing dozens of families Burak as they tried to get away from the overpowering spectre of Communism. It was a good thing that written languages were as easy to understand as spoken ones; the words simply jumped off the page, into her mind, where the meanings became clear instantaneously.

Then she found it; a file pertaining to a family of five. They'd been wealthy landowners before the Nazi invasion, and had regained their property by the time of withdrawal. Then the Soviets came, and the family, mother and father, plus three daughters, the youngest of which had been named Helen, had become desperate to flee Poland.

Tracey's eyes were stinging from hours of going through records, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. Somehow, the Buraks, who had had nothing at this point, had been able to bribe someone high up enough to secure exit visas for themselves, and they'd gone south, settling for a time in Valencia, Spain. That's where the trail went cold in these files. The zloty had been worthless. Really, the only thing that could have gotten them out of Poland was...

"Gold." Tracey whispered.

Codename MIDAS? Could it possibly be?

**

* * *

**

VALENCIA, SPAIN

* * *

Tracey was ecstatic to be back in the sunshine again; Poland had been the very image of a stormy-skied, frigid land, although Tracey had heard it was a beautiful place. Just not when she was there.

Valencia, on the other hand, was gorgeous.

Orange trees lined the streets, all medieval Moroccan-style architecture, left over from the days when the city had been a Moorish stronghold. The symbol of Valencia's long and turbulent history stood just outside her cab's window as they sped past, bound for the local branch of the Spanish national archives; the Torres de Serrano, the ancient gateway to Valencia. Built of powerful, unyielding stone, the gateway watched over the city like a restless, majestic sentinel.

Brendan had fed her additional information, mostly about Greenland's interactions with Codename MIDAS, but Tracey hadn't read any of it yet. She was more interested in just finding this Helen Burak, as per her mission.

She didn't need to know much beyond the woman's location to do that.

Finally, the cab pulled up out the front of the local archival repository, a majestic old Moorish building overlooking a fountained plaza in the heart of Old Valencia.

She paid the driver and entered the building; almost immediately a helpful attendant whisked her away to a viewing room as different from the one in Poland as night was from day. The room looked friendly, well-used; it was basically an office, with arch windows overlooking the plaza and a comfortable feel.

Still Tracey didn't much like the idea of fishing through all those records; people by the name of Burak who had immigrated to the Valencia area around the time the family Tracey was searching for.

It took hours once more; the sun was starting to sink behind the window, but finally, Tracey found them. The Buraks had arrived in Spain after a month spent in Germany. They'd stayed in Valencia for a year, rich enough to purchase a huge mansion on the outskirts of the city.

They'd been on a family holiday in the Pyrenees when they'd suffered a catastrophic car accident. Only one member of the family had survived. The youngest daughter, Helen, twelve years old at the time.

And, according to the newspaper articles grouped in with the files, she hadn't left the mountains since. Tracey knew exactly where she'd be going next.


	8. Codename: MIDAS Part 2

_**

* * *

**_

CODENAME: MIDAS  
_(part two of two)

* * *

_

_The companion piece to 'Schism'

* * *

_

**SOMEWHERE IN THE PYRENEES, SPAIN

* * *

**

Tracey Ho had plenty of time to think on the long train ride from Valencia to Barcelona, and then the bus trip from Barcelona to a village in the foothills of the Pyrenees where she would meet a guide to take her into the mountains, to the place that the Burak family had perished so many years ago.

Tracey's mission was just three days old, but she'd been on two international plane trips, visited four cities and had made out with a Spaniard party-goer at a discotheque in Monte Carlo. She gone through the records of two vastly different archives, in two vastly different nations. And she'd never been bothered by a language barrier. Never in her life; she was able to speak, read, write and understand any language, regardless of origin or use. Louise Greenland had called it 'omnilinguism', all those years ago when Tracey had first started working for Greenland's organisation.

She'd called it invaluable, and had named Tracey a free agent, a floating operative free of any operational constraints. She was free to drift around the world, paid for by the Greenland Corporation, while she tested her abilities, and learned from the cultures she visited.

After Greenland's death, her chosen successor Brendan Wunderlich had required Tracey to stay on the move; he'd said he'd wanted an 'ace up his sleeve', as he put it. He wanted a black agent; one who could stay out of touch and out of sight, should Brendan ever need her. So she had once again become a drifting world traveller, flitting from one party spot to another. She had no family to speak of; parents and a brother, somewhere...

She'd spent the Barcelona train ride absorbed in the latest data she'd been provided with by Brendan on her mission; how exactly Louise Greenland had come across the person she had codenamed MIDAS in the early eighties.

Following up on rumours of a wise woman alchemist living in seclusion in the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees, Greenland had travelled to Spain. She'd returned to Barcelona after a week in the mountains with a hankering to hire a cargo jet to airlift a remarkably heavy cargo back to America.

Tracey had been able to find no information about what exactly the cargo was, but three days after it landed, the Greenland Corporation had experienced a major monetary windfall.

That was all the information Tracey needed; she knew exactly what codename: MIDAS meant. She knew who, or what, Helen Burak was. Someone with the ability to turn things to gold, like the mythical king Midas.

Tracey was sitting in a shaky old truck, beside a shaky old man, who had agreed to take her to the accident site.

They were high enough in the mountains to be too far from civilisation for help to come quickly, and no one would ever bother coming to clean up after an accident. It was a miracle that Helen Burak had been able to survive.

"Here," the man growled in Spanish.

"Thank you, sir." Tracey said, with a smile, handing him a gold chain as payment. She slipped out of the truck. It rumbled off down the dirt road. Around Tracey, the Pyrenees soared, covered in a carpet of thick, verdant foliage.

She was dressed like a regular backpacker; thin, cotton shirt, three-quarter length green cargo pants and a massive camping pack slung over her shoulders.

She glanced down the embankment at the side of the road, and saw a rusted hulk of a car, overgrown with weeds and shrubbery. No doubt it was the vehicle in which Helen Burak had died.

There was rustling in the trees behind her. Tracey spun, only to see a thin woman emerge from the brush, followed by a hulking, and rather handsome young man. He looked Spanish. She did too, really, but there was something different about her. Tracey didn't really look that hard. She was captivated by the man's rather large rifle, clutched in his hands.

"Hello," she said, in Spanish.

The man and the woman traded looks.

He moved before Tracey knew what was going on. A second later, he brought the rifle butt down on Tracey's forehead. She collapsed, unconscious to the road.

**

* * *

**

BARCELONA, SPAIN

* * *

It took three days to get back to Barcelona.

Tracey had woken up in a farmer's house, about fifty kilometres from the roadway. He'd agreed to take her back to Barcelona, but not into the mountains. Tracey had never gotten a straight answer why, but she guessed that the woman and the man, who must have delivered to the farmer's tiny little adobe.

Tracey finally slumped, exhausted, against the counter of the first five star hotel she'd found upon arriving in Barcelona.

"Miss," a uniformed young woman said, in French. "Can I help you?" This was in Spanish.

"A suite. The biggest one you've got free." Tracey answered, her Spanish as flawless as ever. "Or at least one with a shower. A nice hot one."

The woman tapped away at a computer for a second. "We have the Presidential suite available. Is it just you?"

Tracey nodded. "Yes." She almost fainted with relief.

"Excellent. May I have a credit card?"

Not only did the Presidential suite have a shower, it had one of the biggest, most luxurious spa baths Tracey had ever seen. As she sunk into the thick layer of bubbles, the phone on the bathroom vanity rang.

Tracey rolled her eyes, and pulled herself out of the bath, wrapping one of the thick, warn, fluffy white towels. She scooped up the receiver.

"Tracey," an all-too-familiar voice sneered.

"Brendan." Tracey answered, barely able to hide a sigh. "I'm back in Barcelona earlier than we'd planned, but..."

"Don't worry about going back into the Pyrenees." Brendan said, a little too fast. "I got a phone call from Helen Burak. Codename: MIDAS herself. She doesn't want anyone from our organisation anywhere near her, and I'm inclined to agree."

"Wait," Tracey said, her tiredness forgotten. "Are you saying we're giving up?"

"Greenland let Burak be, and she had good reason." Brendan answered, simply. "So do we."

Tracey sighed again, this time in resignation. No point arguing. "So what do I do now?"

"You get out of dodge, Trace." Brendan answered. "In fact, I just booked plane tickets."

"Where am I going?"

"Ethiopia." Brendan answered. "Tomorrow morning, you're on flight from Barcelona to Casablanca, and then you're getting on a connecting flight from Casablanca to Addis Ababa."

"Ethiopia?" Tracey hissed, "You owe me, Brendan. You pull me out of paradise in the Mediterranean, and send me on a wild goose chase, now you're sending me into Africa?"

Brendan laughed. "You won't actually be going _into_ Africa."

"Why am I going then?"

"I want you to meet a friend of mine in Addis Ababa. In the airport."

Tracey was suspicious, but she didn't let it show. "Who?"

"His name is Reilly Carroll. He'll be travelling with three other people. Two women, and a man. Keep an eye on the other man. I suggest you stay armed." Brendan explained. "Good luck."

Tracey gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "Thanks."

**

* * *

**

ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA

* * *

"Jesus H Tap-dancing Christ," Reilly Carroll said as he slumped against the counter of the coffee shop in the terminal of the less-than-crowded Addis Ababa international airport. "I need coffee."

"Not as badly as I do." Grace Scott countered as she collapsed into the chair beside him. She signalled one of the attendants, and rested her chin in her hand. "There was no way to sleep on that plane."

"What was that smell?" Reilly said, remembering the foul stench that had permeated the cabin at one point during the flight.

Grace shrugged.

The attendant arrived at their position at the counter. He was a big black man, with a rather prominent gold tooth. "May I help you?" He asked in heavily accented English.

"They'll take two strong coffees."

Reilly and Grace snapped around at the sound of the unfamiliar voice.

A small Asian woman stood before them, pretty, young, dressed like a backpacker. She looked from Reilly to Grace, and smiled, disarmingly. "My name is Tracey Ho. I work for Brendan Wunderlich. I'm a Carrier of the Gene, with the ability of omnilinguism. And if what Brendan says is true, Grace should be able to tell that I'm telling you the whole truth."

Reilly and Grace shared significant looks.


End file.
